


Intersections

by swamplamp



Series: Departures [4]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: (not to be confused with daddy issues of course), Family Drama, Father problems, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamplamp/pseuds/swamplamp
Summary: A collection of three stories, one leading up to the other. Sort of.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: Departures [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771378
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40





	1. forgive the roses and me

Seven years ago, Sam Hirsch pulled the rug from under his feet on a hotel rooftop. Billy had reminded himself: _don’t underestimate him or you’ll fall flat on your ass, one way or another_. But when had he ever taken his own advice?

When Billy met up with Sam in the lobby and followed him to the elevators, he appraised Sam’s whole look. He wore a green velvet tuxedo jacket and sensible black trousers. His dark brown hair was slicked back, the gelled strands running stiff and tame like rake lines in the sand of a Japanese rock garden. Sam had put some time into this get-up. The overall effect was wonderfully charming in a tacky way. His shoes were nice, though. 

This was their fourth date, a surprise each time. Billy saw them as a mismatch. It felt like a dizzy little fling to amuse themselves with. Despite himself, he floundered for Sam’s attention every time. And Sam’s eyes wandered elsewhere. But when Billy got him to laugh genuinely and openly, it felt earned. He had a love-hate relationship with the way this man made him feel. He had no reason to scramble for anyone’s approval. Especially not some reckless flirt like Sam Hirsch, nearly ten years Billy’s junior. He was suave in an “aw shucks” sort of way, readily armed with a self-deprecating grin. Sam’s charm and appeal seemed purely accidental. Boy-ish. As though, if you found yourself enamored by him, you’d both be caught unawares.

Which is precisely what happened over a private four-course meal on that fated rooftop. It was all catered to Billy's particulars, very South Beach Diet-friendly. He didn’t have to ask for a single thing. He realized, then, that Sam knew what he was doing. There were no accidents. It was all very intentional, down to the cut and color of tablecloth and the tasteful purr of a jazz ballad in the background. It was perfect—too damn perfect.

“I feel like you’re reading my mind,” he groaned.

Sam smiled, a faltering and apologetic smile. “Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” he answered, lying. Sam saw him. He saw him and knew him, and Billy was in love. 

Over a year later, they moved into a sleepy town in Connecticut like the old fogeys that they were. Years passed and some days were ugly. Some were beautiful. Many were boring. But they came home to one another at the end of every day, one day at a time. Years passed, and Sam proposed to him on a sunny winter afternoon. He promised that nothing would be different if Billy said yes, but Billy had some ideas. He wanted to meet Sam's son. He knew that the kid’s name was Gregory and he knew that Sam didn't have much of a relationship with him. Nothing more.

In recent months, Billy had tracked him down on the internet. From what he could tell through text messages, Greg was a nice boy. Not a very skilled typist, but got his points across. He didn’t live that far away, either. He arranged for Greg and his roommate to come by for dinner. Billy and Sam rarely hosted anyone these days, other than the odd Seder here and there. He had a brisket recipe he was dying to get Sam to make for him.

Sam chided him from the stove, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Please! I’ve cut apples at least a half a dozen times before.”

“No, I mean, having the boy over.”

“‘The boy’? You mean your son.”

“My son,” he scoffed. He took an impressive gulp from the fattest wine glass they owned.

“You said it was fine. We agreed that it’s fine. Right?” Billy asked, knowing Greg was probably a half an hour away by now. He wiped his hands on a paper towel and stood at Sam’s side. “Has something come up? What's the matter?”

Sam’s jaw clenched. He sighed, then turned to Billy with his lips twisted in apprehension. “Nothing. Don't mind me." He turned away again.

"Nothing? Nothing. Alright." He drifted off to the other side of the kitchen, humming a tune. He stuck his head inside the fridge and sang a little bit. Just to himself. Nothing too loud:

> " _Answer me, oh my love._  
>  Just what sin have I been guilty of  
>  Tell me how I came to lose your love.  
>  Answer me, sweetheart."

"Oh my god.” 

"Hmm? What's that?" he asked, peeking out from behind the refrigerator door.

"I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know. I have no idea what to expect. I don’t even know what he looks like anymore.”

Billy crossed the room and studied him, curious. “Are you... What is this? Is this _nervousness_?”

“Billy.”

“I didn’t know you could get nervous at your age. Oh my god.”

“Hush, you.” Sam gritted his teeth. He took Billy’s face in his hands, both stifling laughter. “Look— Billy-baby, I promise I will not let a knife fight break out tonight.” He dropped his hands to bring his arms around his shoulders. “I'm just... you know. You know.”

"I do," Billy nodded and planted a kiss on the side of his face.

Sam continued, “I'm imagining Greg having grown into this miniature Marianne. Can I even say that I raised him? It’s insane to me what went on with that Roy family in New York. Who the hell expects to get an update on your estranged son through a Wikipedia article?”

“Right. But sure, everyone sounds like a menace when you read about them on the web. He seems nice."

“Nice,” he scoffs. "He's just a kid. A kid with whom I share a bit of DNA."

Billy tutted, waving a hand. “The way that I see it, we approach this as a little dinner party, like normal people have. With salad tongs and gravy plates. Besides, he’s bringing his roommate. Takes the pressure off. We can pick their brains about the newest trends in youth culture. If need be, we’ll talk about the weather.”

Sam laughed and kissed him, mostly to get him to stop talking. He smelled like the Riesling they uncorked for the occasion. Billy stole a sip from Sam's glass and Sam swatted him on the behind to chase him away. They went back to their respective stations in the kitchen, Sam caramelizing onions and Billy chopping apples. 

Then Sam said, “He’s gay, you know.”

“Who is?”

“Greg.”

Interested, Billy cocked his hip. “Is he now?”

“Marianne told me. She thought it'd make me feel bad for corrupting our offspring with my fruity genetics.”

"That must've put her through the roof," he said. "Is he okay, though? It’s one thing to have a homophobe as an ex-wife. But to have one as a mother?"

"I don't know," he murmured in answer. “We’ll see, hmm?”

They were tall. Shockingly tall. Both Greg and his roommate Tom towered over Billy by a whole foot, but they came across as wholly nonthreatening in their Shabbat best with their crisp collared shirts, chunky sweaters, and pristinely pressed slacks.

"I can't believe it," Billy exclaimed, exuberant. “I wasn’t expecting you two to be so cute! You look like a pair of the most darling fraternity brothers. I’d pinch your cheeks if I could reach them!” 

"Really great to finally meet you in person." Greg bent down to give him a hug. He was sweet. He looked a lot like his father, particularly around the hairline and nose. But he had blue eyes and, where Sam tended to come off as feline, Greg was absolutely dog-like. Like a giant puppy dog, excitable and teetering with nervous energy.

Roommate Tom was older than he was expecting, maybe closer to Sam's age than Greg's. His hair was faintly graying at the temples, but he had a youthful air about him. Something in the animated affectation in his eyes or the deferential tilt of his brow as he introduced himself. He was affable, boxy, and clearly gay. Or maybe Midwestern? He brought a homemade pastry, anyhow.

“Kringle," Tom explained as Billy took a peek under the lid of the aluminum tray. "As the story goes in my family, the recipe predates the Civil War."

"How impressively and fantastically American. You made this yourself?"

"Sure did. Pulled it out of the oven right before we headed out. I hope we’re not too early,” Tom said. It was four minutes to six o’clock. “I never know how to time things out when we drive outside of town.”

“No, no. Your timing is perfect. I just pulled the meat out of the oven.”

“You do eat meat, right?” Sam asked them both, dubious.

“Sam, relax. I asked ahead of time. Of course. Can I get you anything to drink? Wine? Tea? Milk?”

“I’ll take whatever tea you’ve got, thanks,” Tom answered.

“Yeah, same for me,” Greg said. Tom gave him a look. Greg pretended not to notice.

Billy left the three of them to chat as he switched on the electric tea kettle in the kitchen. He couldn’t make out what they were saying in the other room, but hoped Sam was being civil. Sam wasn’t a mean person by nature. The topic of his ex-wife merely brought a few of his old habits to rise up to the surface, particularly his sharp tongue. Billy knew that, although Sam would deny it, those memories of his marriage were important to him. At the strangest times, Sam would mention a detail about his son. Last summer when they took a trip to Salem, they wandered the Peabody Essex Museum and peered at a case of wooden animal-shaped baubles. Sam had leaned against Billy’s shoulder and related a story about baby Greg’s obsession with this tube of plastic toy elephants. He sounded fond, but always referred to Greg as “Marianne’s boy”.

“Would you ever want to see him again?” Billy had asked.

Sam only shrugged, answering, “Would he ever want to see me? Wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.” He wasn’t always as candid when talking about his son, but Billy liked it when he tried. 

In the kitchen, Billy put teacups on saucers and wedged a teabag and lemon slice beside each cup. Pleased with himself, he brought the teas to the table. The dining room was empty, but he could hear Sam somewhere down the hall, giving the boys a tour of the place. 

Arranging plates at the dining table, Billy eyed them when they came into the living room. He watched Greg and Tom move around each other as Sam guided them through the space. Greg did little to hide his jitteriness, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Tom appeared relaxed with his shoulders low and his hands stuffed in his pockets. Billy soon recognized it as a conscious show of looseness. He adjusted his stance too readily for it to be casual. When Greg moved, Tom moved. Tom was very aware of Greg, seeing without looking. He maintained careful distance, that much was clear. Billy knew a dance when he saw one.

While Billy arranged the brisket on a dish, Sam snuck into the kitchen and muttered behind him, “Unbelievable.”

“Hmm?”

Sam spoke in a whisper, close enough that his chest pressed against the side of Billy’s arm. “That boy is like a magnet for older closeted men, I swear to god.”

“You think Tom is gay too, right?”

“Plain as day.” Sam shrugged, eyes on his phone held in front of them. “You know, a couple years back, Greg was sleeping with one of Marianne’s coworkers. A married man, much older.”

“Oh, wow.”

“He’s too much like his mother. They’re always very daring when they want something. Look.” Sam held up his phone, showing rows of image search results for "siobhan roy husband".

“Wait, what? That's..."

"Logan Roy's son-in-law," he whispered. " _Ex_ -son-in-law. I knew I recognized him from somewhere."

"But why would he— No, maybe they're just friends. Close family friends."

"Sure. I look at my family friends like that, too." He poured himself more wine, then swirled the liquid in the glass absently. "I wouldn’t put it past him."

“Well, what are we going to do? You think this is a bad situation? Does he need help?”

“Billy, don’t do that thing. You’re not going to try adopting another stray.”

“But he’s—”

Sam sighed pointedly. “Let’s eat. What do you want me to take out there?”

Billy studied him indecisively. Something needed to be said, but he handed the Corningware full of meat to Sam without a word, sending him on his way. He grabbed the plate of green beans, then paused in the middle of the room. Gathering his wits, he entered the dining room and took a seat.

“Isn’t this great?” Billy laughed. “Look at us, in perfect double date configuration.” 

Tom, sitting across from him, didn’t even flinch. He only smiled his cute little Jehovah Witness smile in good humor.

Sam said to Billy, “So, Greg was telling me about how he works part-time at a senior home. I told him that it’s not that far off from what you do for work.”

“You come to one fundraising gala and claim you’ve seen them all. We do have youth programs and people under 50, I promise.”

“What is it that you do?” Tom asked, head tilting cordially.

“I’ve been a consulting curator off and on for a couple of years now, mainly for this tiny Jewish art center on the other side of town. I won’t get too into it. It’s horrendously boring when I talk about it. Please—and if it sounds like I’m begging, I am—please, tell me about you.”

“Oh. Well, sure. For most of my career, I worked at a Fortune 500 company in New York. I’m sort of on the outs, taking my time to see what boats of opportunity might be bobbing on the horizon. Plenty of options out there.”

“Options are good. What might those options be for you?”

“I’ve been doing some teaching. At a community college, just for a couple months.”

“And Greg,” Sam cut in, “you mentioned you’re taking classes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Same school? Is that how you two met?” Sam asked bluntly, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

“No, same school. But that’s, uh,” Greg answered. “That’s not how we met.”

“It was at my previous job, where we both worked,” Tom supplied.

“At the place in New York,” Sam said. Billy shifted in his seat, knowing Sam knew exactly what company Tom was referring to. It was Waystar, the company run by Logan Roy. Who was Tom’s former father-in-law. And Marianne’s uncle. “So, why was it that you two didn’t stay?”

Greg said, “It wasn’t a good fit for me. I didn’t agree with the way they worked.”

“Seems like quite a career change. Then, how do you make ends meet these days?” Sam asked.

“I’ve got a lot saved up from my old job, actually. I've been investing and all that, but like. It’s, uh, it’s still more than I really know what to do with.”

“Well, don’t tell your mother you said that. Good grief, I’m surprised she hasn’t come around knocking on your door. Has she?”

“No,” Greg answered, with an edge. 

“Do you still keep in touch? You and your mother?”

“She calls,” he said. “Pretty often.”

Sam gave a low, dubious hum. “You mean you call her on Christmas and it goes to voicemail. You don’t have to lie for her anymore.” He punctuated his statement with soft laughter. He leaned forward, conspiring, “Tom, have you ever been married?”

“Yeah,” he answered weakly. “I have.”

“Divorced? Any kids?"

"Divorced. No kids."

"Lucky you. You know, Greg wasted so much time in his youth defending my ex-wife. You’d think she’d at least pay him for his lawyering.”

Greg said abruptly, “So, I won't be working at the senior home forever, because I have this job lined up in the city.”

Brow raised, Sam asked, “Do you?”

“You do?” Tom echoed.

“It’s contract work. But um, it’s something I’ve been talking to one of my cousins about for a while now.”

Tom asked, “With Kendall?”

“Yeah.” A quick wordless exchange took place between Greg and Tom—something Billy wasn’t supposed to notice. The moment passed as soon as it began, a mask slipping and adjusting in the space of a second.

Sam made a show of acting casual, coquettishly gnawing on a roasted carrot. He asked, “Did you two work closely with one another at Waystar?”

“Sure, but only briefly," Tom answered.

Silverware clinked against a plate. Greg asked, "Is there something you wanna ask us, Dad? I mean, what's—?" 

"Nothing," Sam replied, sardonically. Beside him, Billy winced down at his plate. "I'm just trying to flatten out some details."

"Details. Okay, like what?"

"Tom, would you tell me about your ex-wife?”

Billy cut in with, "Sam—" which collided with Greg saying, "You don't have to answer that."

"So, it's a secret, then. You know, it's alright. All of us at this table have failed marriages under our belts. With the exception of Greg. I mean, as far as I know."

"Dad."

"I know so little about your life," Sam explained. "I ask these questions so I can hear about you and the company you’ve kept for the past handful of years."

Greg’s jaw was set and his eyes were narrowed. Now, he was the spitting image of his father. He started speaking, but Tom said to him, “How about we—”

Billy interrupted. “You know what? Sam, let me talk to you in the kitchen for a bit.” Out of his seat, he put a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder until he felt the tension shift under his palm. Billy met Tom’s gaze from across the table and nodded. 

Billy followed after Sam into the kitchen and gave him an appraising look as he shut the door. Sam wore mean little lines in his face with his eyes cast to the floor. 

“What is going on with you? Where in the world have you gone?” Billy demanded. “Sam, I really need you to take a step back from yourself right now. For god’s sake, you’re sounding like a gay-coded villain. Or some kind of terrible cliche.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You’re not. I know you and this isn’t what you do.” He took Sam’s hands in his. Sam was a full four inches taller than him, but Billy wasn't intimidated. Never. He lowered his voice. “Sammy. Look at me, honey.”

He heard Sam's measured breathing in the quiet. Sam looked up. 

“You're gonna talk to him,” Billy said. "You're gonna get these dishes washed and you're gonna talk to him."

"What?"

"Go on," he coaxed, waving at the sink loaded with dirty pots, pans, and utensils. The fire was out of Sam's eyes, extinguished by his silent obedience. The hiss of the kitchen faucet suggested that it was going to be fine. 

He peeked into the dining room to find Greg and Tom out of their seats. They stood in the relative darkness of the far corner of the room, huddled close together. Tom spoke to Greg intently in hushed tones, as Greg nodded with worry lines clear in his face. Billy fiddled with the doorknob, clicking and clanging as he came into the room. The boys sprang apart like mice scattering under a searchlight. 

"Greg, dear. Help your father in the kitchen, would you?" 

Greg remained unmoved, his expression stiff. Tom stood behind him, equally defiant and alert, like he was ready to hold Greg back.

"It's okay. I talked to him.”

Greg softened his gaze, moving forward. This inspired a small noise of protest from Tom, and Greg responded to it immediately. For a moment, Billy considered letting Tom go with him, but a look of begrudging acceptance spread across Tom's face and Greg continued on.

“Hold on, one thing. Maybe two.” Billy put his and Sam's empty plates in Greg's hands. “Take these with you.”

“Y-yeah. Okay.”

"Thanks, Greg."

With only the two of them in the room now, Tom stood there wringing his hands with his eyes on the closed kitchen door. Billy took his glass and the bottle of wine with him to the living room.

"You sure I can't tempt you with a glass of Riesling?"

Tom turned his head. He smiled mechanically, slowly remembering his manners, and joined Billy with an empty wine glass from the table. "A sip or two won't hurt."

"I can't imagine this is what you had in mind for a Sunday dinner."

"It's not unfamiliar, this whole thing. The, uh—" Tom motioned vaguely towards the kitchen. He added, "It’s family. I don't mind. I really don't."

“You’re a good sport, anyhow. Being very good to Greg. Standing by your man.” 

Tom gave a queasy upturn of his lips, answering with a marked non-response. His eyes drifted back to the kitchen door. Billy tasted the wine again, letting the conversational lull take them where it would.

“Meeting the parents of someone you’ve known for a while,” Tom said. “It’s not unlike slipping into the backroom of your favorite 24-hour diner, just to watch how it’s all made.”

“How shocked are you to have found asbestos and rat traps lining the walls?”

"No. No," he chuckled. "I knew plenty about the asbestos and rat traps."

"Yet here you are.”

Tom dropped his head, withholding. Billy wanted to push and prod at him so badly, but knew that it would spook him. So, he did it, anyway: “Does Greg know you’re in love with him?”

Tom devolved into blinking and stammering, “I don't, uh. I don't know what you're— What? Does he— What?” He laughed under his flopsweat. "There must be some misunderstanding."

"No, sure. Apologies. I overstepped." Billy pursed his lips. He had a feeling Tom would run out the door if he let out a laugh. And he really wanted to laugh. 

"I don't...” Tom said, each word like pulling teeth, “I don’t know if he knows. Greg can be, uh, pretty inscrutable, believe it or not.”

Billy smiled, relieved by his candor. "Those Hirsch boys are something, aren't they? More than half the time, I think I must be out of my mind to love Sam as much as I do."

"I've tried so hard not to."

"There’s nothing wrong with loving our boys. You know, Sam’s not a bad person. He might play one very well in front of a live audience, but he’s not always like that. He keeps things close to the chest. Puts on a front and it’s easy to misread. But under all that, he’s got a good heart.”

Tom agreed, “Greg, he, uh. He keeps secrets like he doesn’t know how to shut it off. I think it catches him off guard when he realizes what’s happened. He’s— There was this one time...” He laughed. “This one time, he was being really screwy. Just weird. Moreso than usual. I was so certain that he was hiding an affair. And it was crushing me, you know? He locked himself in the bathroom and I was just sitting there by the door. Then I heard him throwing up.”

“What was wrong?”

“So, he kept apologizing. And I asked him over and over to tell me what was going on. It turns out he had just eaten a whole supermarket sheet cake in his car, but he didn't want to tell me.”

Billy burst out into unrestrained laughter, half from the absurdity of the story and half from the way that Tom was bent over himself laughing. He could see how Greg and Tom fit together now. 

"My wife is like that, too,” Tom continued. He grimaced, correcting himself: "Ex-wife. I always saw it as a family trait from her side. Hoarding secrets like some dragon in a cave. Dishonesty hurts a lot of the time. But with Greg, it tends to hurt a lot less." 

Billy kept his eyes on Tom who wore a guilty expression, at war with himself. He cocked his head, wondering, “Did Greg tell you to keep quiet about the two of you?”

“No, it was a mutual agreement.”

“Right. Well, I won’t tell either of them about any of this. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Tom, eyes back to the kitchen door, asked, “Is he being ambushed in there? I don’t feel great about leaving him alone.”

“I’m not worried. Greg seems pretty capable himself.”

“You’re right, he is. You’re right.” He looked fraught with his eyes glistening in the light. “He’s miles ahead of me now.”

“Hmm?”

“He’s going places, onward and upward. I don’t want his father to think for a moment that he isn’t? And I’d never say this to Greg myself, but...” He cleared his throat, shifting where he stood. “It feels like the beginning of the end, you know? He’s doing so well for himself. And I’m just... I’ve hit a wall—and a tree. The last thing I’d want is to hold him back.” Tom stopped himself there abruptly, his jaw snapping shut. He furrowed his brow, mystified and startled with himself.

“You want my advice?”

He nodded, swallowing visibly. Bracing for impact.

“Believe me when I say that I’m loving this, but I think I'm not the one you should be talking to. Talk to him.”

“I talk to him all the time.”

“Well, no. Talk to him like you’re talking to me now.”

Tom winced, embarrassed. “Jesus, I didn’t mean to unload on you. I think it’s the, uh...”

“The Riesling, sure.” Billy shrugged. “But if that’s what it takes, then...”

Greg came through the kitchen door like a shot ringing out and crossed the room to grab his jacket from the coat hanger. Tom rushed over to meet him.

“Everything okay?” Tom asked. He placed a careful hand on Greg’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Sam called out from the doorway, spitting venom. “Well, it was a real nice attempt. We should try this again maybe in another ten years or so.”

Paying no mind to all that, Greg approached Billy. His face was pinched together apologetically. “I’m sorry for— So, Tom and I have to get going. It was, like, uh... Thank you, I’ve gotta go. Thank you, though.”

“Oh. No, no,” Billy replied, “but you don’t have to. I’m sure we can talk this out.”

“Let them go, Billy,” Sam suggested from the peanut gallery. He was headed down the hall, nothing but the back of his head visible now. Billy turned away from him.

“Thank you for tonight,” Tom said, quiet. Between him and Greg, their eyes were so emotive and bright. Like cartoon characters. Tom held a hand out for shaking, so Billy huffed out a laugh and drew him in for a hug.

“One last thing.” Billy corked the bottle of Riesling and handed it to Tom with a wink. And with that, they were gone.

Billy was left alone with the stale air of the room, the energy sapped from the place so immediately. He was relieved to find that Sam had washed all the dishes and wiped down the counters. With effort, he steadied his hand as he poured himself a glass of water. He was tired. Undoubtedly, Sam was, too.

Sam was lying on his side on their bed, sulking.

“They’re gone,” Billy murmured. He sat beside him with his back against the headboard and folded his hands in his lap.

Sam spoke tonelessly to the wall, “Would you ever forgive me? I wouldn’t. If I were you.”

“I’m not the one owed an apology.” 

Sam said nothing, and Billy allowed it. He sunk down on the bed to lie parallel to Sam, doing well not to disturb him too much. On his back, he sighed. He wasn’t mad at Sam. Where there should have been feelings of spite and anger, there was only a sadness rippling steadily deep in his chest like waves. This wasn’t how he wanted the night to end. He didn’t want Sam feeling this way, either.

“The last time I saw my ex-wife," Billy said, voice barely above a rumble, "I stonewalled her. Didn’t say a word. Mind you, she had never done anything wrong. But I was upset."

Sam didn't move or speak, but Billy knew he was listening.

He continued, "It was me who was in the wrong and I knew it. To speak was to admit my faults. I wasn’t about to do that, no. So, instead of being honest, I decided to be mean. She tried talking to me, and you know, she was lovely. She just wanted to understand. I was quite the asshole. In my head, I wanted to talk to her. Be the happy little tart that I had come to be outside of my marriage. But I couldn’t find my way out. Like I was lost under a heavy veil. I look back and I think, ‘Why the hell did I do that?’ But it’s just— You know I’m going to keep talking if you don’t.”

In reply, Sam sat up with his back turned away from him and his shoulders hanging low. He ran his hand down his face, breathing raggedly. “I’ve been so atrocious.”

Billy sang, “That’s what I’ve been _saaaying_.”

Sam laughed and it came out like a sob. 

Billy scooted down the bed to sit face-to-face. He took Sam’s hand and looked into his eyes. He knew Sam was hating this. Sam didn’t like anyone seeing him cry. Billy murmured, “I am sorry, you know. I shouldn’t have forced this into a thing.”

Sam searched Billy’s face and asked, “You’re not gonna stay, are you?”

“Well, of course I’m going to stay, Sam. This is my house.” Tightening his hold on Sam’s hand, he said, “Our house.”

“But I really fucked it.”

“You did.”

“I should really apologize. We can try this again.”

“You should apologize. We can try this again,” Billy confirmed. “Although they might not want to after all this, and that’s fine. I do hope we can see them again. His partner is funny. A real character. Your son is in good hands.”

“My son. He turned out to be so much better than me. Better than I could ever hope.”

“Is that what you told him?”

“No,” he answered, offended.

Billy groaned. “Oh, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thank you to alitneroon for beta-reading this chapter and talking me through kringle logistics. billy was written with nathan lane in mind, while sam is alan cumming. possibly credit to kendallroy for injecting the character concepts into hyperspace in order for it to land in my orbit.
> 
> title of this chapter from frank o'hara's poem [to my dead father](https://allpoetry.com/To-My-Dead-Father) because i love pain


	2. parenthetical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> co-written by deadpanwalking; they did the bulk of the writing, while i did some light dusting.

“So, basically you want _me_ to do it, and you'll... watch,” Greg said carefully.

Tom said nothing, just leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers, which was probably less-than-formidable since his dick was doing a little steepling of its own, but it worked—because after a long moment, Greg swallowed and began to undress. He undressed quickly and didn't make a show of it. He was positioned just right so that Tom could see most of him, save for anything below his knees.

Down to his boxer briefs, Greg peered into the camera. The blue light from his laptop screen cast a pale glow on his face. He said, unsure, “Tom?”

"What.” Tom squinted back at him, leaning forward.

"Yeah. It’s... I just—Yeah." Greg huffed out a breath and blinked around downcast eyes. The embarrassment was plain on his face, and Tom wanted to eat it up. 

“Well, come on,” he sneered, just to see Greg’s face flush a deeper shade of pink.

Lifting his hips, Greg tugged at the last piece of clothing he had on. The cloth of his boxer briefs snagged a little on the head of his dick as they came down. He stroked himself, eyes locked with the camera. There was a gleam of mischief in his face, his mouth slack but his eyes narrowed in an odd humor, and it wasn't Tom in control here. Greg knew what Tom liked to see; he had the power to give or withhold as he saw fit.

“Jesus,” Tom whispered shakily. He was already so fucking hard.

Greg's eyes fluttered closed and his grip tightened; Tom took a moment to be glad that Greg shelled out for the set up with the ultra HD webcam, because he could see the precome beading at the tip of Greg's cock. Almost on reflex, Tom's mouth watered and an answering rush of warmth pulsed through him, soaking into his underwear. Cursing wordlessly, Tom pressed the heel of his palm down on his dick through his pants before he knew what he was doing.

“Knew you'd like this,” Greg murmured, bringing his free hand up to his chest and rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it pebbled sweetly. 

“Fuck off,” Tom said. Greg just snickered and kept stroking his cock, a maneuver which shouldn't have been as hot as it, in fact, was. 

The thrill of voyeurism got old quickly. Tom fumbled with the buttons on his trousers and peeled the fabric of his boxers away from his erection, tamping down on the shame that uncurled from the pit of his stomach. His eyes flickered up to the screen, where Greg had gone very still, watching him hungrily. Tom lifted a hand to his lips, lapped at the skin between his thumb and forefinger and then sucked on his fingers, two and three at a time.

“Oh fuck,” Greg said appreciatively.

He fell into his usual rhythm; a few long, punitively slow strokes followed by a flurry of short, quick ones. Then stopping for a few seconds to build anticipation, teasing the head with his thumb, gathering the slick there into his palm.

“ _Nnnnh_ ,” Greg bit out, writhing and fucking up into his hand. “Want you.”

“You could have me, you know. You could come over right now, Greg.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you could ride me hard, put me away wet. You could, you should, I'd—I'd let you do it. I'd let you come inside me.”

The mere notion of doing any of… _that_ on his 600 thread count sheets would normally be enough to make Tom queasy, but right now, leaking like a faucet into the slick curl of his palm, it was the single hottest thing he could think of.

Greg must have agreed if the way he threw back his head and came all over himself was anything by which to judge; Tom gripped his cock tightly at the root to watch him until the throbbing grew unbearable and he had to move, had to. Distantly, Greg mumbled some kind of encouragement, but Tom catapulted into his own orgasm thinking about Greg on top of him, sliding into his body, nothing in between them, nothing at all. 

The video pixelated briefly, Greg's come-spattered torso gently rising and falling, still flushed. 

“I miss you,” Greg said quietly, and Tom felt something in his chest snap like a dried-out tree branch. 

“I—ditto,” he said. “When are you coming home? You should come home.” 

Greg let himself in and slipped between the sheets, the way he did most nights now. Tom kept his eyes closed as Greg got situated, waited for a tentative hand to squeeze his bicep, the press of Greg's narrow chest against his back, the tickle of Greg's breath rustling the hair on the nape of his neck—and felt himself relax incrementally with each familiar sensation. 

“Tom,” Greg said.

“Mmm.” 

“What you said tonight. Did you actually want me to—” 

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Tom said. “Not yet,” he concluded, grimacing. 

The week before last, they got carried away and it wasn't so bad. It was Sunday, and Tom spent the morning tracing adoring little circles around Greg's bellybutton with the pad of his thumb, nibbling his lower lip just because he was making such pretty noises that Tom didn't want to swallow them all away. When Greg plunged his hand underneath the waistband of Tom's pajama bottoms, Tom didn't stop him; Greg's pale eyes were wild and intent as he stroked him, flickering between Tom's face and the outline of his hand moving over Tom's cock beneath the threadbare cotton. 

"Sorry," Greg had said, after. "That was probably, uh—I should have asked."  
  
"Like I'd turn down the handy of a fucking lifetime," Tom had mumbled, and Greg rolled his eyes, and lying side by side in their ruined sleepclothes had felt like the most normal thing in the world. They showered together, splashing each other like little kids. 

The following week had been bad. Tom pressed Greg up against the wall right when he got home from work, already half hard from thinking about how he would taste. The last thing he remembered for sure was the overpowering smell of chlorine from the pool, and his tongue abruptly going numb and useless inside Greg's mouth. Greg had pulled back, eyes wide and bright, mouth flushed red from kissing and Tom—Tom didn't remember the particulars of what he said to Greg then, just the bovine expression of confused hurt dawning on Greg's face afterwards: that familiar crestfallen half-smile, the fugitive resentment. 

Tom blinked. He was standing in his well-appointed study in Manhattan, waiting for Shiv to come home. Tom blinked. He was in bed with Greg, sucking him off, and the illusion of a liminal space had been shattered. He was a disgraced middle-aged homosexual slobbering on his ex-wife's cousin. Tom blinked and kept his eyes squeezed shut. He was home. Maybe he could have this one thing, Greg curled around him, holding him close, the drowsy warmth of his body. He told himself it wasn't going to last.


	3. what's my line?

The sun was setting later in the day. Tom wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for his evening walks. He liked to watch the sun set while he was out. But today was different, because Greg was home. They went out to dinner to celebrate, and when they were headed home, it was still light out. 

They took the long way home, walking through the park. Tom discovered this park in recent days, although it seemed obvious that it was here. But Greg had never seen it. They took a meandering route while Tom talked and talked, because he was nervous and didn’t want to admit it. 

Greg was going to say something; Tom knew and didn’t want to hear it, but Greg said, “Tom.”

“What?”

“We should talk.”

“We are.”

“No, I mean...” They stood in the grass now, Greg with one hand clutching his other in a fist. “I did some thinking while I was away, just like I said that I would. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, it was almost two whole weeks, so it was - it was a considerable amount of time. For, y’know, thinking.”

“I know,” Tom said. “I know how long you were away, Greg.”

Greg nodded with his bottom lip worried under his teeth. He was clearly winding himself up to deliver bad news. There wasn’t anything Tom could do to stop him now. Greg murmured like the beginning of an apology, “I didn’t like being away from you for that long.”

“Okay.” He ground his teeth a little, waiting.

“And that’s— I don’t know. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Tom repeated. 

“Let’s, uh... Let’s get home, okay?”

Tom exhaled sharply, continuing on down the sidewalk path. Now, it was getting dark. He could see the sun slipping under the rooftops ahead of him. Tom was determined to make it home by nightfall, while Greg trailed behind him from afar, presumably.

Greg had floated the idea of spending some time apart from each other before he actually did it. It started with videochatting while they were in separate rooms in their apartment. Tom initially thought it was a quirky Greg sex thing and gladly rose to the occasion, but it was really something else. Then came the camping gear and the new luggage. Tom made an effort not to comment on it.

Eventually, Greg announced his trip to Europe. He told Tom that he’d be traveling with a group of six, the trip organized by his buddy Park Ranger Dan. Tom was half-convinced that Greg wouldn’t come back. Or he’d come back, but come back as a different person—someone with clearer senses. Someone who knew a path to move on and away. Tom wasn’t sure who he had walking beside him now. 

“Tom, it’s not about the apartment lease,” Greg said at their doorstep.

“Uh huh. Yeah, you said that before you left. You made that clear enough.” 

“I don’t think I am making things clear enough, so like.”

“No, you’re right about that. You really aren’t.”

When they made it inside, Tom threw his jacket across the couch and went straight into the bathroom. He was in such a tangle, he couldn't understand why he was upset. He couldn't talk about it if he didn't even know himself. All he could hear in his head was a litany of _what do you want? what do you want? what do you want?_ He didn't know.

Tom left the bathroom to find Greg sitting beside Tom’s discarded jacket. Greg’s eyes were on him, stormy and dark. He was waiting for Tom to come to him, so he did.

“We visited Hungary, you know,” Greg said.

“Oh? And how was it?”

“It was better in general? Very much, uh, absent of peril. But it wasn’t... Uh, to be totally honest, I liked it better with you.”

Tom scoffed. “I find that oddly hard to believe.”

Greg threw him a troubled look. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. Then he looked at him for a while, reading him in that way that he does. He said slowly, “Tom, the night before I left, you said that you loved me.”

“And based on your reaction, I got the sense that I shouldn’t have.”

“Because you didn’t mean it, right? That’s not what you meant to say?”

“I don’t know, sure. I didn’t know what I was saying. Like putting an empty can in the oven instead of the trash, I guess.”

“No,” Greg said. He adjusted his legs under him and came closer to Tom without touching. “What did you mean when you said it?”

He remembered what he meant. They had spent the day at home, doing a deep-clean of the kitchen with their sleeves rolled up and the windows wide open. They dried and reassembled the refrigerator shelves, then piled onto the couch they were sitting on now, bone-tired but satisfied. Greg had his head nestled against the crook of Tom’s neck and Tom had a hand threaded through Greg’s hair, tugging lightly just like he liked it. And the words dropped out of his mouth. 

He meant to say, _I want every day to be like this._ He meant, _I don’t understand how happy I am, but I want you to know it._ He meant, _Please don’t leave._

“I don’t know what I meant,” Tom answered. “But I want you to know that I do love you.”

It felt mutinous saying it again. His jaw ached with it.

Greg concluded, “It’s important to you. Saying it.”

“Well. Yes.”

“I don’t know how to say it back to you. Without feeling like I’m lying.”

“What?”

“It’s not what you’re— Don’t you want something better than this?”

“Like what?”

“Like, what I have to offer or whatever, it’s not really anything, right? It’s not really whole. It’s kind of like the diet version. Not the, uh, regular. I believe you, you know. When you said it. But I figured it was a mistake. ”

“I don’t...” Tom took a breath, then said sharply, “I don’t make mistakes, Greg.”

“I mean, you don’t until you do.”

“No. Never.”

Greg’s eyes flit from one place to the other, unironically weighing the option of listing his incidents of fault. Tom sat there, daring him. The longer they waited, the more Tom considered which horrendous anecdote he could possibly unearth at a time like this. And Greg knew it. His expression changed, a light switching on behind his eyes. 

“Okay, fuck you,” Tom laughed, mauling him. Greg laughed under him, a sweet sound that Tom could never really place why he thought he’d heard it before he knew him. Tom clutched him by the shoulders and grazed the edge of his teeth against the side of his neck, right where it made Greg gasp when he kissed it. He wanted to mark him in writing. He wanted his words clear and visible, for Greg to see and know. Tom growled, “You’re such an asshole, Greg. I don’t care what you think I want. I want you and whatever you’ve got. Don’t you get it?”

“I think maybe I’m starting to.”

“Yeah.” Tom kissed him once, but when he came away from it, Greg's eyes were lost in thought. He asked, “What?”

“Can I tell you about Hungary? Because I don’t want to bring up anything bad, right now. But it’s—”

“Fine, no. Sure, go ahead. Tell me about it.”

“In the planning, I actually spent some time trying to convince everybody not to go. Like, I mapped out alternatives and everything, but we ended up going and, for a good part of the day, I could only really think about that first time. There was a smell in this one building, like when you know something is historical. Or, uh, dusty and a little damp, I guess. But it reminded me of, like, the heat of the fireplace on my back and the way that my throat was pinched up because my blood was pumping so fast. You know? From - from that night? Do you ever think back to it?"

"Not if I can help it. I mean, I try not to.”

"Right. No, exactly. But it was fine, in the end. I was with friends. I didn't let it become a thing. You were right about what you said a while back. At Thanksgiving. About our experiences belonging to us now? I didn't really get it—not as much as I should've. But I think I do now."

"Okay," Tom said, happy for him but still unsure if he understood what Greg was telling him. Greg kissed him anyway, drawing him in with a hand to the back of his head and around the small of his back. Tom's heart leapt at the firmness with which he was being handled. He fucking loved it. He kissed him back, sliding the hoodie off of Greg’s shoulders and down his arms. He ran his hands over his chest and down his sides and up under his shirt to feel his skin. Greg swiped his tongue along his bottom lip, both of them devouring each other with a hunger built up over the long days they were apart. They pressed their hips together and groaned, wrecked with it.

"Let's go to my room.” Tom held a hand out to help Greg up to his feet, but he didn’t take it.

"Wait, wait. I want to, um. Can - can we...?"

"Hmm?"

"There’s another thing,” Greg said, slowly coming to a stand. “I’m gonna take a shower. Like, a really long shower? But I want you to wait in my room."

“Oh, right. Okay. No worries.”

“But, uh, Tom.”

“Yes.”

“Can you, uh... I think, um. So, I want you to fuck me. Is that okay?”

“Wh—” His face went red hot. “Is that okay? Is that okay? Yeah. It's fine with me. Okey-doke, let’s do that.”

They sped out of the living room, laughing giddily as they went. Tom waved from the hallway as Greg disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Tom had fallen asleep in Greg’s room with the Jonathan Franzen book that Thanh lent him opened on his lap. He only realized this when he woke to the feeling of Greg sitting down next to him.

“Holy shit,” Tom murmured, putting the book aside. “What time is it?”

“It’s, like, not even nine yet. You tired?”

He shot up to a seated position to prove his point: “No.” Tom’s pulse had been so out of control while he waited for Greg that he had willed himself to relax and focus on reading until he fell asleep. 

Greg pat him on the leg and sat back against a pillow without a word. He was wearing the faded dark green t-shirt he was wearing before and his tiny boxer shorts; he seemed content enough to simply sit around. 

“Are you tired?” Tom asked him, worried.

“Nope. Slept on the plane.”

“Hm.” He scooted over to rub his shoulder up against Greg’s. “What a day, huh?”

“Tom?”

Before he could even turn his head, Greg kissed him. Their mouths knocked together clumsily, more force than feeling in the kiss. “Fuck, sorry,” Greg said, pulling away.

“Jesus.” Tom swiped a finger against his lips, checking for blood. He was fine. "You brushed your teeth for this?"

“Yeah,” Greg answered shiftily. "Shut up.”

"Easy," Tom chided. He accepted the kisses that followed and pulled Greg in closer however he could. Greg crawled onto his lap with a solid _plunk_. When Tom lurched forward to chase Greg’s mouth, he noticed that his shoulders were held against the wall with a firm grasp. "You okay?" Tom asked.

"I want you to stay like this," he explained quietly, flattening his hands against the sides of Tom's arms like he was straightening out a stack of papers.

"Okay."

"Are - are you comfortable, though? Is this okay? Is this gonna be okay?"

"Greg."

Greg avoided eye contact, sliding off of Tom to lean on his side on the bed. Tom slid down to join him. Greg told him, “I’m sorry. This is weird, maybe. I don’t know. This isn’t really going like I planned.”

Those words sounded familiar to Tom—so familiar that it made the pit of his stomach clench. He placed a hand in Greg’s hair, right over his ear, and Greg’s eyes fluttered shut. 

“I feel a little bit out of focus. You know?”

“It’s okay,” Tom said.

They’d talked about doing this before. He knew there were condoms and lube in the drawer behind him. He knew that Greg had done this before with a moderate frequency, a few years back with only one person. And he knew that right now wasn’t the right time.

He brushed his teeth and changed into his sleepwear, then came back to Greg’s bed where they shared a blanket as Greg showed him photos of an owl he saw in Monaco and described questionable details about the interior of the Vatican. Greg was most likely bullshitting him through one-quarter of his stories, but Tom couldn’t help but laugh along with him, anyway.

Tom slept well into the morning. He heard the creaking sound of the bathroom faucet before he opened his eyes. Greg was already up. The day was bright. Tom closed his eyes again.

He woke to kisses against the back of his neck. “Mmm, mhm.”

Greg wrapped his arms and legs around him like an octopus. “Hi.”

Tom flopped around to come face to face with him and kissed him messily. He loved feeling their bodies tangled up together, neither of them really caring where their limbs were. They just wanted their hands all over each other. And when Greg managed to palm between Tom’s legs, Tom gasped, “Fuck.”

“You wanna?” he asked.

Tom nodded his head furiously before Greg manhandled him onto his back and straddled his hips. The sight of Greg was a wonder: his shirt was wrinkled all up the front and the part of his hair was messed up and uneven. But his face was clean-shaven and his eyes were gleaming. Tom remembered mornings being his favorite, back when they first knew each other. Greg was always there to greet him with his coffee and whatever look he was sporting for the day. Tom always came up with some constructive tip to impart for Greg’s benefit and Greg would soak up every word. Anything to distract from how obsessed he was with Greg’s face illuminated by the morning light that flooded in through his office windows.

Tom ground his hips upwards against his ass and rubbed his palms against his thighs. He could see the front of Greg’s boxers straining against the beginnings of an erection. 

“Should I take these off?” Greg asked.

“No. No, I want to.” 

Greg nodded, giving him the go-ahead. Simple pleasures Tom discovered recently: hearing the hitch of breath when he rubbed circles against the base of Greg’s hardness and freeing a hard cock from the confines of slightly snug underwear. He liked the way Greg’s cock stood at attention under the circle of his fingers. Tom dragged the pad of his thumb along the edge of where it flared out at the head, admiring it. “God, I missed this. So pretty.”

Greg said with a hand under Tom’s shirt, “I wanna see you, too.” And they shuffled around a bit, divesting themselves of their clothes with difficulty because Greg wouldn’t stop groping Tom’s chest.

Greg talked him through putting his fingers inside of him slowly while his cock drooled precum on Tom’s belly. Tom dragged his fingers in and out like Greg told him to until Greg grabbed his wrist with a sharp intake of breath and said, “Okay, okay.”

When Greg lined himself up with the head of Tom’s cock, he told him, “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Hah,” Greg breathed out, dropping down lower incrementally, very slow. His legs shook against Tom’s sides. He bottomed out and Tom felt like his heart was gonna burst in his chest.

"It’s like I can feel you all the way up my spine."

“Does it hurt?”

Greg shook his head with his eyes pinched shut. Tom reached a hand out to tuck Greg’s hair behind his ear. Greg turned his head to kiss the inside of his wrist, murmuring, “Stay.”

“Yeah.”

Greg shifted with his shoulders tipped back until Tom could better see where they connected. Greg was stuffed full with him, trembling. 

“You okay?”

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Fuck.” Greg began to move in earnest. The sounds Tom made were embarrassing, but there was no stopping while Greg stroked himself while bouncing in his lap. Greg let out a strained groan and came in countless messy spurts, the cum landing on Tom's stomach and oozing down his side. Greg slouched forward panting, regaining his breath.

“Greg,” Tom said, an edge of panic creeping in as he felt his erection flagging.

Wordlessly, Greg lifted his hips, dismounting from Tom entirely. Before Tom could protest, Greg rolled the condom off Tom’s cock and took him in his mouth, sucking down viciously.

“Aah,” Tom groaned, without dignity. “Jesus fuck, you’re fucking— nngh. No, oh, Greg.” His orgasm hit like a burst lightbulb and he felt it in his fingertips and toes.

The bed shifted and Greg hovered there above him. He knew what was coming before it happened, and he fucking wanted it: Greg dribbled cum into Tom’s open mouth, Tom swallowing it down with a delirious satisfaction. Greg dropped to the bed beside him in finality, humming in approval. Tom would’ve laughed if he wasn’t this close to passing out.

“Yeah,” Greg said, pleased with the state of things.

Tom agreed. “Yep.”


End file.
